The streams sank away again, as they had done during the siege,
and labor became more trying. Yet Henry Ware never murmured, though his
soul was full of black bitterness. Often he would resolutely turn his
eyes from the forest where he knew the deep cool pools were, and keep
them on the sun-baked field. His rifle, which had seemed to reproach
him, inanimate object though it was, he hid in a corner of the house
where he could not see it and its temptation. In order to create a
counter-irritant he plunged into work with the most astonishing vigor.
John Ware, in those days, was full of pride and satisfaction, he
rejoiced in the industrial prowess of his son, and he felt that his own
influence had prevailed, he had led Henry back to the ways of
civilization, the only right ways, and he enjoyed his triumph. But the
schoolmaster, in secret, often shook his head.
The summer grew drier and hotter, it was a period of drought again and
the little children gasped through the sweating nights. Afar they saw
the blaze of forest fires and ashes and smoke came on the wind. Henry
toiled with a dogged spirit, but every day the labor grew more bitter to
him; he took no interest in it, he did not wish to calculate the result
in the years to come, when all around him, extending thousands of miles,
was an untrodden wilderness, in which he might roam and hunt until the
end, although his years should be a hundred.
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